


His Forgotten Friend

by alexandriakeating



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-11
Updated: 2014-06-11
Packaged: 2018-02-04 07:46:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,641
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1771249
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alexandriakeating/pseuds/alexandriakeating
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She had counted. She had always counted, and in this trying time, he needed her more than he would like to admit. But he had a death to fake, and who better to consult than the lab technician at St. Bart's?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Leaving a Note

**Author's Note:**

> This chapter is just going over the Fall from Sherlock's perspective. This was written pre-season 3 and originally posted on Fanfiction.

As the dark blood pooled around Moriarty's head staining the grey cement of the roof, Sherlock began to panic. His long fingers entwined in his hair as he tried to make sense of this new emotion that had seized his heart in such a fierce grip so quickly. As every possible scenario ran through his head, as every word that had ever been said ran on replay, only one thing stood out clear in his head: John.

_Oh God, John._

He brought his hand to his mouth to hold back the emotion that wished passage through his thin lips. A cool wind whipped around him and pulled him towards the edge of the roof, and his mind calmed.

Here it was.

It was time now.

He had picked this building for this.

Taking a deep breath, the dark, curly haired man stepped onto the ledge of the building, the tips of his shoes hovering over empty air, and peered down. His bright eyes fell on a cab that stopped across the street. Sherlock's heart froze as the door opened and he saw a head of familiar sandy hair. Tentatively, long fingers snaked into his coat pocket and pulled his phone out. He scrolled through the seven numbers in it until he stopped on the one he wanted.

_John._

Pressing the call button, he placed the phone next to his ear. It didn't take long for his friend to answer after he clambered out of the cab.

"Hello?" he heard John ask desperately as he began jogging around the cab.

"John," the lithe man forced out, unable to say what he needed to say to his friend.

Without a second thought, the doctor ran across the street towards the building Sherlock stood atop of and demanded urgently, "Hey, Sherlock, are you okay?"

_No._

_No, he couldn't come any closer._

_He couldn't do this if he was any closer._

"Turn around and walk back the way you came," he harshly pleaded his friend.

"No," John stubbornly refused. "I'm coming in—"

"Just do as I ask," Sherlock said with as much force his shaky voice could muster, interrupting his friend. Taking a shallow breath, he added in a harshly whispered afterthought, "Please."

He saw that word caught John. "Where?" the sandy haired man questioned as he paused and began to walk back across the street, his eyes roving the area.

The lone figure waited a brief moment before saying, "Stop there."

"Sherlock?" his friend questioned.

Forcing the lump in his throat down, Sherlock instructed his friend, "Look up. I'm on the rooftop."

His bright eyes absorbed every movement that the ex-soldier made as he turned and cocked his head upwards to look over his shoulder. His elbow pointed up to adapt to the angle of his head, he took a stumbling step back as he muttered, "Oh, God."

"I—I—I can't come down now so we'll just have to do it like this," he said calmly.

He had to do this.

"W-What's going on?" he heard John say through labored breaths.

"An apology," was his simply response.

_Oh, God._

_I can't do this._

_But I have to._

_For John._

_For Lestrade._

_For Mrs. Hudson._

Standing taller with his resolve he stated, "It's all true."

His eyes drunk in John's slight shuffle backwards in surprise. "What?" he asked incredulously.

"Everything they said about me. I invented Moriarty." Steeling himself, he turned and glanced behind him at his fallen enemy. His arms outstretched like a bird that had fallen, broken, from the sky onto the cold, hard ground. The gun was still trapped in his lifeless fingers as blood flowed freely away from its owner's body as if it no longer desired to be associated with the man it had given life to for so long.

"Why are you saying this?" came John's childlike question, bringing him from his thoughts.

His eyes burned as his chest constricted tightly, threatening his air supply. His throat seemed parched and barren and his lip began to tremble without his consent. Pulling his lips taunt to prevent the unknown reaction, he turned back to look down at his one friend. "I'm a fake," he managed to say before his throat squeezed shut.

"Sherlock," his friend breathed out in disbelief and earnest pleading, but Sherlock couldn't let him continue.

He couldn't let John talk him out of this.

"The newspapers were right all along," he continued through, doing his best to ignore the tumult of emotions inside of him. "I want you to tell Lestrade. I want you to tell Mrs. Hudson and Molly," he paused to pull himself together some. "In fact, tell any who will listen to you—" he cut himself off as he felt moisture dampening the corners of his eyes.

He had to press on.

He had to say it all.

He had to…

"That I created Moriarty," he finished with a struggle, "for my own purposes."

"Okay, Sherlock," John's voice jumped in, strong and firm and demanding, "Shut up, Sherlock. The first time we met, the  _first_  time  _we met_ , you knew all about my sister, right?"

_No, John. Don't believe it._

But he had to smile at John's belief.

But he couldn't believe.

"No one could be that clever," he replied simply, reciting on of the many insults he had heard throughout the years.

"You could."

Two words.

So simply said.

So much faith and force in two little words.

Sherlock forced out a laugh at John's simplicity as the tears streamed down his cheeks, caressing them on their way down to his jaw bone where they continued the caress until they pooled and dripped from his chin.

_No, John._

He shook his head slightly before realizing that John couldn't see the motion. "I researched you. Before we met, I discovered everything that I could to impress you."

His brilliant eyes watched as the doctor stepped back and forth shaky his head in denial. He hurt. It hurt so much to watch him like this.

He couldn't.

He couldn't give him nothing.

With a slight sniff he begged John to see, "It's just a trick, just a magic trick."

His friend shook his head with more force and said, "No. Stop it now." His shoulders pulled back as he began to take purposeful steps towards the building.

"No," Sherlock begged him, reaching out his hand. "Stay exactly where you are. Don't move."

He had no idea where Moriarty's men were. When they would shoot.

_Oh God, don't let them shoot._

The sandy haired man put his hand up toward Sherlock and stepped back to his previous position. "Alright," he assured.

"Keep your eyes fixed on me," he demanded.

_I knew you would come, John._

_I'm sorry you had to be here._

_That you have to see._

"Please," he begged, his voice breaking with emotion, "will you do this for me?"

"Do what?" he questioned without hesitation.

_I need you, John._

_Do this._

"This phone call is—um—," he searched for the word. As it struck him, he took a deep breath and stood up straighter, his mind eerily calm for once. "It's my note."

He waited for his words to sink in before continuing. "That's what people, do don't they?" he questioned as his mind flew to another note, another good-bye. "Leave a note," he whispered.

His focus was caught by John as he desperately shook his head and pulled the phone away from his ear. Sherlock smirked briefly at recognizing the gesture as one of impatience and stress. It gave him courage, the fact that he was able to deduce such a small thing, such a well-known thing.

"Leave a note when?" the doctor questioned, his steady voice barely betraying the emotion that his body did.

"Good-bye, John."

There.

It was done.

He had said it.

"Nope. Don't—" he pleaded in a strong voice as he once again shuffled backwards.

The curly haired man gave a slight nod. It was time.

He had always been told that he didn't have a heart, but there was something very real inside of him that broke inside his chest as he hung up on his one friend. Tossing the phone to the side, he held out his arms and prepared to jump.

_Falling is just like flying, but with a more permanent destination._

He had always hated riddles. But now was not the time. He had a suicide to finish.

He took a moment to go over this decision once more for the umpteenth time. As he saw John across the street looking up at him and Moriarty's words swam in his mind, he reaffirmed his decision. As he leaned forward into the open space before him and felt the wind entangle its fingers in his hair, he hoped that Molly had succeeded in her task.

"SHERLOCK!" he heard John yell in anguish just before the wind filled his ears.


	2. The Fourth Friend

The tired woman sighed as she finished stirring the hot liquid. Tapping the spoon off on the side of the mug, she tossed it into the sink. Turning around, she leaned against the counter and grasped the cold surface in her sweaty palms. The small staff kitchen stared back at her, bland and empty.

No one there.

She gave a small, forced laugh.

No one knew.

"God," she muttered, "why do I always do this? Every time, without fail."

Biting her lip, she pushed the pesky thoughts from her mind and pushed off the counter. She spun around, grabbed the warm mug and walked out of the kitchen without a second thought. As her footsteps echoed in the empty and darkened hallway, young Molly Hooper's thoughts echoed the memory of words she would very much like to forget.

" _You're wrong, you know."_

Her fingers tightened on the mug as she shook her in attempt to dislodge the persistent memory, but her action was futile. The dark, empty hallway did nothing but remind her of a darkened room she had also thought to be empty.

* * *

_Finally finished, she was ready to lock up for the night. She wanted to be done and go home, and maybe try to forget. He always said the most horrible things, and here she was, just as smitten as when she first met him. The auburn haired woman wasn't sure who she hated more: Sherlock or herself._

_Biting the inside of her cheek, she shrugged of the white coat that covered her clothes and hung it up. She snatched her simple light olive coat and slipped her arms into it. After she had straightened it out, Molly reached for her bag and slung it over her shoulders. She pulled her long ponytail out from under the strap and flipped the lights off. As she made her way to the door, she flitted through a mental checklist: making sure she had everything she needed and everything had been turned off. She stopped in her tracks._ Does Sherlock have an ongoing experiment? _she wondered briefly. After a quick thought, nothing came to mind and she continued on her way._

_She let a sigh escape her lips. Still worrying about him. She couldn't not worry about him apparently. She reached for the door knob and turned it, but just as the door was opening a voice, well-known but unexpected, sounded._

" _You're wrong, you know."_

_Gasping in surprises, her hand flew to her chest as she spun around to face the darkness. The rectangle of light coming through the door's window fell softly on a partially hidden figure. His thin form leaned against a counter. His ever-present coat fell off his shoulders where the collar was pulled up, showing only his high cheekbones, strong nose and bright eyes. Those bright eyes were down casted as he continued to speak. And she listened, as one hand circled over her waist and clutched the strap of her bag._

" _You do count. You've always counted and I've always trusted you."_

_His voice stopped and Molly wondered if he expected her to respond. She had opened her mouth, taking a breath, and had leaned forward slightly when he suddenly turned to face her saying, "But you were right."_

_His bright eyes fell on her face and stayed there, observing her, deducing her, but the only thing that came from his thin lips was: "I'm not okay."_

_On autopilot, without a second thought, her hand dropped from the strap of her bag as she shuffled forward stating, "Tell me what's wrong."_

_Her hand snuck around and rested on top of the bag that its pair had just abandoned. Her mind briefly warned her that she was doing it again. She was doing just what she had been chastising herself about and what she will no doubt be chastising herself about again, but she paid no mind to it. There was a reason she did it. He was a friend. And though he would never care to admit it, sometimes he needed someone. Sometimes he needed help, and she would always be there to offer it._

_She watched as he pushed himself off the counter, his bright eyes never stopping their penetration of her face. "Molly," he stated as he began to take slow and measured steps towards her, "I think I'm going to die."_

_His steps were steady as he made is way closer to her. Molly watched his bright eyes as the shifted in the light they reflected. Catching herself, she shook her head briefly, shifted her position and asked, "What do you need?"_

" _If I wasn't everything you think I am," he implored immediately after her question fell from her lips. "Everything that_ I _think I am," he continued in a tight voice, leaning in closer. "Would you still want to help me?" he questioned condescendingly as he stopped an arm's length away from her. Molly perceived the barest trace of crease between his dark eyebrows._

_Without hesitation, she asked again, soft yet fierce with determination, "What do you need?"_

Does he really need to ask whether or not you'd help him? _Her mind mocked her. Pushing the annoying voice to the side, her eyes widened and her pulse increased as she watched the tall figure close the gap between them, his brilliant eyes never leaving her face. He stopped again, much closer to her this time, and looked down into her eyes and said simply, "You."_

* * *

Shaking her head to dislodge the memory, she opened the door to the lab. "Sherlock," she called out, "I fixed your—"

Molly's eyes widened at the empty room before her. The dark haired consulting detective was nowhere in sight. "But—" she began.

He had just been here.

He was  _just_  here.

The auburn haired woman took a deep breath as the agitation began to grow. "He's always going to do this, isn't he?" she asked herself tersely. With a sigh she let her shoulders slump as she walked to the microscope and set the warm mug next to it.

 _He might be back soon for it,_ she reasoned faithfully.

As she began to make her way out of the lab, she spotted a piece of paper with a neat scrawl decorating it. Furrowing her brow in confusion, she reached out a hand towards it. "I don't remember this," she mused as the paper crinkled under her fingers. She brought it in front of her and read the hurried and cramped writing.

"Molly,

I've gone out. Something to do.

I'll be back for my phone. Don't lose it for God's sake.

—SH"

Sighing she folded the paper and slipped it into the pocket of her lab coat next to Sherlock's phone. "I hope he is going to see John, but, hell, he better not be seen," she muttered as she opened the door. Closing it behind her, she made her way to the morgue. She had a body to examine.


	3. The Graveyard

"Wait here," the lithe man demanded as he clambered out of the cab. The cabbie grunted in response as he shifted the car to park and relaxed into his seat.

Turning up the collar on his coat, the man hid his face in its shadows so that the color of his pale skin resembled that of his dark hair. The man shoved his hands in his coat pockets and weaved his way through the bodies occupying the street, avoiding eye contact. He stopped at the corner and leaned against the cold, gray stone of the building. Casually, he peered around the corner until the black door he knew so well was in view.

A sad smile pulled at the corner of his thin lips. As he gazed at the door that he knew he was unable to walk through again, he felt a cold and dark emptiness flood into his chest. He was unsure of what he would describe it as, but he didn't like it. If he had known that…

No.

He would have still down what he had down.

He had to.

He had to save John, even if it caused him so much pain.

He bit the inside of his lip and inhaled sharply as he saw the black door pull back to reveal a familiar wallpaper. The lithe man's heart seized in his chest as he caught sight of the familiar form of an older woman, her greying hair styled simply, and a sandy-haired man dressed nicely who followed close behind. The woman's lips were pursed and her eyes were red; her willpower set against not crying again. The man's face was drawn straight and weariness dragged at his reserved frame, not betraying anything to an outsider.

A bundle of flowers was nestled snuggly in the crook of Mrs. Hudson's arm and Sherlock felt a wry smile tugging at his thin lips. John stepped forward to the curb and tried to hail a cab. After the third one past without stopping, a string of curses followed by words of reprimand caught the spying man's ear. A gruff, humorless laugh passed his lips without his consent.

What had he done?

Suddenly, John began to walk down the street towards him, continuing in his attempt to hail a cab. The dark-haired man ripped his scarf off and tucked it in his pocket. He slipped his arms out of his coat and laid it on his head. Grabbing the edges of the dark material, he wrapped it and his long arms around his middle. He dropped to his backside he drew his knees to his chin and pressed his forehead against the stone wall. His bright eyes skirted to the side, peering underneath the folds of the coat as he watched the empty sidewalk.

Time seemed to stretch on forever until he saw John's foot step into view. A wearied and apologetic "Poor fellow" directed at him caught his ear. Shuffling closer to the wall, he concentrated on listening and watching the few scraps of him and Mrs. Hudson he managed to see, willing himself to not be recognized.

"Oh, that—" Mrs. Hudson's caring voice began, but was caught off by John, impatience creeping into his tone. "Leave him. We can't do anything."

A sigh passed withered lips but was ended by the screech of tires piercing the air and a door opening.

"After you, Mrs. Hudson," the curled-up man heard, and he felt his throat constrict painfully.

"Thank you, dearie," came the soft response.

After a moment of shuffling and two doors closing, the cab pulled away from the curb.

Sherlock jumped to his feet and dashed towards the cab he had left, slipping his arms back into the dark hollow sleeves in his coat. He threw himself inside the small car and demanded, "Follow that cab, up there. Wake up, you idiot, and follow them!"

The cabbie spluttered to life and his car mimic his actions as it set off down the street. As it got increasingly close to his friend's cab, the man spoke up, "Not so close."

After a moment of grumbling, his order was obeyed. Once he was confident that his cabbie was completely inept at his job, he wound his scarf back around his neck and leaned his temple against the cool glass. His eyes glazed over as he barely registered the buildings passing him on the way to the graveyard; his mind too focused on a sad and weary face.

* * *

"'Ere!" the cabbie grumbled.

Sherlock roused himself from his mind palace and pulled out more than needed to pay the cabbie. "Take it. Drive around a bit and be back within the hour. And for God's sake, pick up a pack and smoke. In here preferably." Without any further instruction, he climbed from the car to leave a befuddled man behind him.

It only took him a moment to spot John and Mrs. Hudson's forms walking through the headstones. Planting his hands firmly in his pockets, he began his journey behind them, dashing behind a gravestone or occasional tree if he feared a glance in his direction. Once the two figures had stopped at a black marker, the dark-haired man stopped as well, taking refuge out of eyesight.

A slight breeze ruffled his curls with chilled fingers and caressed his ear with murmured words. Though he knew he shouldn't risk much, he risked a glance towards the mourning figures to see Mrs. Hudson clutching onto John's arm. The tension in John's firm form was palpable, but in complete contrast from her withering one. The murmur on the wind began to grow clear as the older woman's voice grew stronger and closer to hysterics.

"The marks in my table…and the noise…firing guns after one in the morning, bloody specimens in my fridge…"

Her voice trailed off again before the man gave a solemn nod.

The voice, now shriller, reappeared again. "And the  _fighting_ , he drove me up the wall with all his carryings on."

The dull ache in his chest grew stronger and more unbearable. Unable to risk much more of his heart and his secrecy, he turned from the pair as John turned to comfort Mrs. Hudson. As everything from the past few days began to wash over Sherlock, a numbness slowly consumed his body.

They thought he was dead.

That was the plan, but…they thought he was dead.

The shattered man took a deep breath to calm his racing heart and prickling eyes.

Footsteps caught his ear, and adrenaline pumped through his body as he held ever so still. A light muttering caught his ear that was soon followed by the older woman.

"Oh, but I miss him," he made out in her soft whispered words.

The lithe man's heart clenched at her words. He had let her down. He had still hurt her, and John, in the end. He hadn't done so great of a job as he had hoped.

As Mrs. Hudson passed, he risked a shuddering breath and a glance back at John. His eyes darted to his clenching and unclenching hand, and even though he thought the pain was unable to worsen, it tripled at this sight. Suddenly overcome with an irrepressible urge to hear what John was saying, Sherlock darted closer to his gravestone without a thought to being seen. Once comfortable with the distance he was at, he leaned back on his heels, his eyes drinking in every movement of John's, his ears tasting the sound of each word he said.

John stood a few paces back from the black marker, his shoulders slumped with weariness. His broken voice shook as it said, "…you weren't a hero. Um—There were times I didn't even think you were human, but."

A brief but penetrable pause carried threw for a moment as his head dipped down. "Let me tell you this," he tried again, shuffling his feet.

_Unsurity. Discomfort. Confusion._

"You were the best man, and—the most human."

His weight shifted again.

"Human being."

He nodded in self-encouragement.

"That I have ever known, and no one will convince me that you told me a lie. So," he concluded licking his lips, "There."

A sad smile played at Sherlock's lips as his friend's encouraging and loyal words graced his ears. His clear eyes desperately absorbed John's movements as he indecisively stepped away and looked over his shoulder.

_He's still worried they'll think he's gay,_ Sherlock thought with humor.

His sandy-haired friend finally decided to step forwarded to the black stone and gently laid his hand on it. "I was so alone," he rasped out, "and I owe you so much." His rough hands grazed off the stone as he began to walk away, his hand clenching.

_There's more,_  he assured himself and had to refrain from a smug smile when John suddenly turned around. But any pride in a correct deduction of the man he knew better than anyone, even himself, was wiped out by the soft pleading in the man's voice. His warm eyes implored the cold stone in front of him as he begged, "Please, there's just one more thing—one more thing, one more miracle, Sherlock, for me."

The curly haired man was unsure if the fluttering in his chest was from hearing his name called out it the voice he missed so much or from the anticipation of what he may be able to do for John. _To make this all right._

Yet, his fluttering heart stuttered as the army doctor's voice took on a fragile and broke tone that he had never heard before. "Don't be…dead," his voice broke with the word. The man stopped and pursed his lips in attempt to hold back, but his plead was too desperate to be ignored for long. "Just for me, just stop, stop this," he motioned towards the grave and where Sherlock should've been buried, his voice barely holding on.

As John's emotions flooded through him like a torrent he quickly tried to push back, the man who watched him unseen became hard and determined in his resolve. The army man pulled himself together and gave a brief nod before walking off; the cap he had hastily screwed on at risk of flying off. And it was with that nod that Sherlock solidified his plan. He didn't know what he'd do, but he'd do something. He'd fix this.

His bright eyes followed John's exit through the graveyard, and the gears in his mind began whirling. He'd make this right. He'd find a way to minimize risk.  _I'll find some way to get John that last miracle,_ he vowed to himself. Yet, for a rare moment in time, as he thought, no idea struck him, no solution present itself, no way of easing the pain in his heart and that of his friend.

Drawing himself straighter he made his way back to the street, unconsciously following in John's footsteps. He needed some nicotine.  _That cabbie had better followed those instructions_ , he pondered gravely.

 


	4. Coming to Collect

Molly's eyes scanned over the file one more time before placing it into the tray. With a sigh she unconsciously dipped her hand into her pocket and felt the cool surface of the phone that lay in it as she made her way through the echoing hallways back to the lab. The amber haired woman pushed the door open to see the room as empty as it was when she had last left it. Sherlock's mug still sat untouched by the microscope, the liquid inside long since cooled to an undesirable temperature.

 _I had hoped he'd be back here by now_ , she thought. The young woman took slow steps towards the counter and wrapped her hands around the chilled mug. With a sigh she picked it up, intending to clean it and refill with liquid warmth once again for the third time.  _So it's ready when he comes,_  she defended.

Just then the door clicked open. Molly's eyes darted towards it and saw a familiar tall frame filling the door way.

"Oh, there you are. I was beginning to worry," she stumbled out. "I was just about you some more coffee," she desperately trailed on.

His response was silence as he walked up to her and held out his hand.

"Oh, of course." She replaced the mug on the counter and stuck her hand in her pocket, grasped the phone and placed it into the outstretched hand.

"Thank you, Molly," he said as he began scrolling through his messages. As his silence hinted to no soon ending, the lab technician picked up the mug again. She held it up and rolled it between her hands. "Do you want me to fix you—" she began.

"Yes. I'm sure you remember how I like it," he briskly stated as he stalked past her, his coat flapping behind his legs as he walked to the end of the counter. He pulled his scarf and coat off and tossed them carelessly onto the counter next to the microscope before he sat down on a stool.

Molly nodded and swallowed, attempting to wet her quickly drying mouth. Rubbing her sweating fingers along the cool ceramic of the mug, she left the lounging, long-legged man to fix him his coffee.

* * *

Cautiously juggling two steaming cups of coffee, the amber headed lab technician bent her elbow and pushed down the doorknob. As the lock clicked open, she quickly shifted her weight to her lip as she thrusted it into the door to push it open. Her heart hammered as she watched the hot liquid lick the rim of the mugs, threatening to spill over and press fiery kisses to her creamy skin.

The door shut with a loud click behind her as Molly faced the lab with her two mugs poised in front of her confidently. The man she had left appeared no different. His long legs were stretched out before him as his hands held his phone in front of him; his bright eyes intensely absorbing what was on it.

The young woman cleared her throat, and after a long moment Sherlock looked up. He arched an eyebrow. "Oh, Molly. When did you get here?"

"Just now," she lied. Lifting up a mug, she said, "I brought your coffee."

The man held out a long fingered hand as he tucked his phone inside his jacket against his breast. As Molly set her mug down on the counter and searched for another stool to sit on, Sherlock took a sip of his drink. The young amber haired woman was too busy to notice his slight scrunch of the face as the liquid passed his lips. He set the mug down on the counter in front of him as she came back with a metal chair she managed to find.

Folding it open at his elbow, she sat down with her warm mug nestled between her fingers. As silence filled the small space around them, Molly unconsciously began to trace the rim of her mug, her eyes gazing off. Clockwise. Counterclockwise. Clockwise. Counterclockwise.

_Did he like the coffee?_

Clockwise.

_Why is he still here if he is going to be so silent?_

Counterclockwise.

_Why am I still here? Surely he doesn't need me now._

Clockwise.

_Was he able to finally see John?_

Counterclockwise

"Molly," Sherlock's voice broke into her concentration.

She gave a startled shake of the head and her eyes focused on the black haired man to her right. "Hmm?" she question, her mind still too foggy with her thoughts to make any coherent response.

His bright eyes turned to her. He lifted a long finger and tapped it not too gently against her forehead. "What is going on in there?"

"Why do you care?" she barked out defensively as she pushed his hand away.

"I don't," he promptly responded turning away. "But you were tracing the rim of your mug; something is on your mind: something you want to talk about if it has taken such an external form. If you don't desire I ask, please don't invite me."

"It wasn't intentional," she explained.

"Precisely. You people are never able to control such simple habits. You make it too easy really," his brisk reply came.

"You have your own habits," she tried.

"Mmm yes," he gave her, "but those are quite intentional."

Molly sighed and silence descended over the two again. Her finger once again began to trace the rim. After another moment, she ventured to ask, "Have you seen John yet?"

Her question came just as Sherlock said, "Your nails are looking a bit sorry. Perhaps a manicure?"

The young woman bit her lip.  _Always. He always does._  She pushed his remark to the back of her mind and repeated her question.

"Yes," came his simply reply.

"Well," she prompted

His lips stretch thin as his phone buzzed. His long fingers snaked into his jacket and pulled out his phone. He read the text quickly before slipping his phone back. He stood up and slipped his arms back into his coat. Sherlock snatched his scarf and rounded the counter, making his way to the door.

The lab technician jumped up and set her mug next to Sherlock's. "Sherlock, is something wrong? I can help."

He let out a sigh and tied the scarf around his neck with expert ease. The lithe man turned around to face Molly and stepped towards her. "I know. I couldn't have done this without you." He stooped towards her and lightly kissed her cheek. He turned and walked back out the door waving a hand over his shoulder in farewell. As his form disappeared, Molly heard him call gently back to her, "Please give John my condolences. He'll get his miracle. Make sure he knows that."

The woman in the lab coat let out a great sigh as his form disappeared that she hadn't realized that she was holding on to.


End file.
